10. Dalton
10
DALTON
T he next few shifts work out like Nadia and I planned. I get in early in the morning, either after Nadia is gone or with only an hour of crossover.
When she isn’t there, I sleep or organize a few things. We get a small nightstand with two drawers. A curtain to divide the room. More dishes. The fridge slowly fills with groceries, condiments, and leftovers.
She makes big casseroles and leaves notes for what I can eat.
I buy extra pizza or pasta or a second burger and leave some for her.
It’s working.
But about two weeks into our roommate situation, I get two whole days off, starting in the evening.
Our sleep schedules are going to align twice.
When I enter the apartment, Nadia is cooking. The amazing smell of garlic fills the air.
“Please tell me you’re making extra,” I say, dropping onto the sofa.
“Totally. I wouldn’t leave you out.”
I kick back, leaning my head on the arm, watching her move around the kitchen. She’s wearing a deli shirt and khakis. Her dark hair is braided down her back. It’s soothing to watch her stir a pot, shift to a cutting board, and slice an onion.
I wonder who else has gotten to see her like this. “Have you had many roommates before?”
She scoots the onion into the pan. A new, wonderful aroma fills the apartment. “I have. I lived with my friend Sheila throughout grad school.”
Wait, what? I sit up abruptly. “Grad school? You have a Master’s? Or a Ph.D.?”
“An MBA.” She doesn’t break stride, cutting a stick of butter into chunks.
I head for the bar and perch on a stool. “Why are you making deli sandwiches, then?” This could be the answer to everything I’ve been wondering about her.
“Stalling.”
The butter goes into the microwave and she punches buttons before facing me. “My family expects me to work for Pickle Media, and I’m not sure I want to.”
“So you’re a rebel.”
“A rebel in plastic food service gloves.” The microwave dings, and she pulls out the melted butter, peering into the bowl. “I enjoy cooking. I don’t mind slicing and dicing all day. Not a fan of customer service. People can be so rude.”
“Tell me about it. Wait until they come into the ER and get mad at you because you have to pull glass out of their butt.”
Nadia freezes, a cup of measured flour tilted over the bowl of butter. “Glass? In their butt?”
“You’d be amazed at how often people who’ve made the dumbest mistakes get nasty with you for trying to fix it.”
She continues with her recipe, adding various spices to the flour and butter. I haven’t teased out what she’s making yet.
“That’s just wrong. Doctors should be revered. You’re saying that’s changed?”
“I think it changed a long time ago.”
She stirs, her head tilted. “What do you think caused it?”
“Insurance. Cost of care. We’re mixed up in it even though we don’t like it any more than they do.”
“But in the hospital, you don’t have anything to do with billing or approvals, do you?”
I shift on the stool. “You’d be surprised at how many people ask how much this will cost way before how long it will take to get better.”
“I believe it.”
She leans over the warm stove to stir the garlic and onions. The tendrils at her temple curl in the heat. Her features are elegant with a sharp nose, defined jaw, long lashes. She looks like a fifties model, Elizabeth Taylor maybe.
“How long do you think you have before your family will try to force your hand?” I ask.
She shrugs as she opens a carton of chicken broth. “I signed a lease to make it harder for them to call me back to New York or Florida.”
“Those are the options?”
“If I’m going to be upper management, yes. We have delis in Boulder, where I’m from, as well as Texas and here, of course. But the restaurants aren’t the point anymore. We have entire enterprises around advertising, marketing, and product development.”
“Who’s in charge of it all?”
“Uncle Sherman, although if you ask him, he’ll insist he’s retired. He turned over the main deli in Manhattan to my cousin Anthony a few years ago.”
“Isn’t he the one who went viral after poisoning that TV chef?”
“Yeah, that was something.”
“You Pickles are kind of a big dill .”
“Ha, ha.” She pours the broth into a big pot, moving it on the burner that held the pan with the garlic.
I stand up to be nearer to the amazing smells. “What are you making?”
“Dumplings.”
“It smells like heaven.”
“We had a lot of leftover chicken at the deli, so I brought it to dump in. Can you get it from the fridge? It’s wrapped in white paper.”
It’s nice working with her in the kitchen. I open the door and retrieve the oblong package.
“Thanks.” She opens it and chunks of chicken plop into the broth.
“Since you like to cook, did you want your own restaurant in the chain?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. That would take my happy hobby into work territory.”
I lean against the counter. “What did you imagine doing with your MBA?”
She adds the onions and garlic to the dough. “I think I was on auto-pilot. My two oldest brothers got MBAs.”
“Do they work for Pickle Media?”
“Rhett works for Dougherty, the Florida outpost.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Three.”
“Did the other two escape?”
She sets down her spoon. “Axel sold his hiking app during college, and he’s all set. He got, like, half a billion.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Half a billion?”
“Yeah. It was a good app. He’s really into the outdoors.”
“I bet. And the other one?”
“He’s gone domestic.” She turns around at that. “What about your family?”
This might bring down the conversation. I keep it light. “It’s just me and my mom. She lives in North Carolina. She works at Wal-mart right now. She doesn’t hold down a job for long, though. She has zero tolerance for bullshit.”
“And your dad? Or is that too personal?”
And there it is. “He died when I was fourteen. Complications from a war injury.”
“Oh!” She presses her hand to her chest, like learning this about me pains her. “Is that his army duffle under the bed?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “I can’t imagine losing my dad, although my Aunt Pat died when I was a kid. I always worried about my cousins. Anthony, the youngest, was only sixteen.”
“It’s rough being a teenager when it happens.” And homeless, to boot, but I don’t say that. Dad got to die in a clean, white bed in the hospital. “But we got by.”
She flashes a smile. “I bet you did. You seem resourceful. When did you know you wanted to be a doctor?”
That is too tough of a story for this night, so I fake my answer. “When I figured out how much money they made.”
“Not saving human lives?”
I shrug. One life, mainly, but I was too young. “I will be a perfect philanthropist.”
“I’m well-versed in charity balls.”
“When I go to my first one, I’ll be sure to call on you to coach me.”
She stirs the broth and chicken. “They aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Neither is money.”
“Only people with money say that.”
She spoons a lump of dough into the boiling water. “Fair enough.”
“Any noise from the family about you staying here in LA?”
“Not yet. As long as I’m helping Max and Cam, they won’t question it.”
“When is she due?”
“Four months.”
“And then?”
She plops more dough into the pot. “I’m helping them while they have a newborn.”
“How long do you figure you can stretch this?”
“I have a year lease. Max hasn’t spilled that I’ve moved yet, and I’m not telling anyone. But they’ll figure it out, eventually.”
“And you have no plan.”
She scrapes the bottom of the dough bowl. “I’m tired of plans. I want to go without one for a while.”
Her voice is laced with frustration. I’m starting to understand her, little by little. She had expectations thrust onto her. She’s not sure how to get out from under them.
I had nobody expecting me to amount to much of anything, not even Mom, who suggested I join her at the fast-food restaurant she was working at when I turned sixteen.
But I started studying for my SAT instead. I knew my grades were bad, but I somehow qualified to be a National Merit Scholar with my PSAT. It was the first jolt of success that told me that maybe I was smarter than I looked. That I had potential.
As I watch Nadia cover the pot and wash out the bowl, I can’t imagine the opposite scenario. That everyone tells you what you ought to be, makes you aim high. But when you get there, it’s all wrong.
Nadia must spot her cat because she says, “Come here, baby girl.” She sits on the sofa and pats the seat.
I hold still, watching the oversized cat slowly step out from where she’s peeking between suitcases. It’s a rare sighting for me. She mostly hides under the bed.
“Come on,” Nadia says.
Catzilla crosses the room, her gaze trained on me. I barely breathe, trying to avoid startling her.
She leaps silently onto the sofa.
“Good girl,” Nadia says. “My sweet baby.” She strokes the cat’s long fur.
“Do you miss rescuing kittens?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Sometimes. But once I got Cattarina, I had to stop anyway. She loved the kittens, but they were terrified of her.”
“I imagine.”
“Did you have pets growing up?” she asks.
I picture the places we lived, the shelters, the hovels, the single rooms in dingy houses. “No.”
“Did you want one?”
“Sure. I wanted a dog like most kids.”
“Catzilla loves dogs, if they’re not afraid of her. You could get one.”
I grin at her. “One secret pet might be enough civil disobedience for us.”
Nadia presses her cheek against Catzilla’s head. “I guess I should tell them I have her. With you paying half the rent, I can probably afford the fees.”
“You’re not half the rebel I thought you were.”
“You thought I was a rebel?”
“The way you fought for that first apartment? You were fierce! You accused me of wearing fake scrubs.”
Her cheeks go pink. “I’m sorry about that. I was feeling desperate.”
“So was I. But look at how this is working out.”
She nods, petting the cat’s head. “It is, isn’t it?”
And the contentment in that moment, a roof over my head, warm dumplings filling the space with savory smells, and this woman with her cat, makes me realize I missed out on a lot growing up half-homeless.
And I like it. Here. With her.
A lot.